Sheherazade
by Kurki
Summary: The rather depressing - both in theme and low quality - result of musings on the relationship between Quatre and his father. The title is in reference to the lovely suite "Sheherazade", where the famous queen is represented by a solo violin.


            The bow danced swiftly over the strings, etching out a haze of genital notes that hung in the air, musical perfume.  The hands that held the violin were those of a master; every note hung crisp, yet mingled peacefully with its fellows.  Quatre sighed, leaning his cheek more comfortably against the warm chin rest, eking out a song from what where, in all truthfulness, more or less randomly chosen notes.  He rarely bothered with playing true songs, these days; it was more of a relief to simply put his thoughts into music, allowing the bow to wander at will.

When had he begun to play the violin?  He had been very young . . . Five, maybe.  His father had given him a little miniature violin as a present, and begun, half-jokingly, to teach him.  Master Winner was himself a fair player on the instrument, but he had been shocked at how quickly his son had taken to the music.  By the age of eight, he had bypassed his father in skill.  

Quatre pressed his chin against the rest harder, starving off memories of his father's proud face glancing in as he and his tutor – the best that could be found, paid an enormous fee – went through complicated exercises, his tutor praising his charge, with all honesty, as a prodigy.  Quatre had always shrugged such praise off, too fascinated by the music to dwell on his unusual stores of talent.  And he had always been gracious in brushing off praise.

The Arabian's random melody took on a darker tone, as his thoughts turned on a grimmer chapter of his history.  He had never given up the violin, even in the worst of his . . . depression.  Music had been, for a few dark years, the only thing he and his father could speak of without the conversation degrading into an ugly match of biting words.  They couldn't talk, but they could still play; he remembered playing his violin as his father played the piano in accompaniment, both wishing desperately that the other would speak, both certain the cure would come only if the other –

(The stubborn, stupid, blind other . . .)

- if the other would only take the risk of breaking the silence.  

But they never did.

The notes of the violin turned slow and sad, poisonous honey to the ear.  Their player was not playing attention to them; he stood in the light of the window, lovely blue eyes tightly closed, as he tried to focus on everything but the memories that swarmed . . . 

(Of his abortive runaway attempt . . .  his violin was the only thing Quatre had thought to bring.  He couldn't bear to be without his violin.  And, when he returned to L4, he quietly sent a request to the Maganacs that one of them send him his violin, left aboard their ship.)

(Of his meeting with his father afterward, both unwilling to look the other fully in the face.  And then his father had told him he bought him a new violin, just in case the old one was damaged from the trip.  There was no other mention of the event.  It had been all he could do not to cry.)

(Of the final time the pair had played together, only a week before he had finally flown the nest, leaving his pacifist father watching helplessly as his son turned against everything he believed.  Master Winner had suspected, but there was no word, merely an affable discussion of whether to try the Vieuxtemps today or go back to their old friend, Joachim.  As he had turned to leave, later, his father hadn't dared to glance at him, unwilling to risk saying something of the activities that led his son into the depths of the unused sectors of the colony so often.)

The music finally ceased, Quatre staring silently at the window, trying desperately to hold in the threat of tears.  With rather less care then usual, he placed the violin down upon a table, wincing at the slight jolt.  He inhaled, sharply, and, gathering up his strength – considerable strength, for such a delicate frame – strode crisply away from the window and the violin, and shut the door behind him.

He would play again tomorrow.  

And he would find a way to apologize to his father, someday.  Master Winner would surely understand, someday.  They could not both stand proudly forever, unwilling to bend or listen; they would both capitulate, someday.

There was plenty of time to apologize.       


End file.
